Fresh are the Roses
by NeedsmoarDelta
Summary: Oliver Twist. In one night, Emily's entire world collapsed. Lost, alone, and penniless, she has no one to turn to. Until a certain pickpocket lends her a hand. OC-centric; for F/R's challenge.


_A/N: For F/R's second Fireplace Writing Challenge. This is my first time writing for this fandom, and if I make any canonical errors, don't hesitate to let me know. Hopefully, my OC doesn't fall into the realm of Sue, I haven't really written one before. Much thanks to the awesome Melreincarn, who gave me the idea for this title. _

_Disclaimer: If I owned Oliver Twist, I'd be a goddamn medical miracle. And it would be pretty disturbing to wear Lolita. ;)_

_----_

I never had a mother.

Before you start with the false pity, let it be known that I don't really care. I had never known her; it's near impossible to get attached to someone you had never met. It was always my Dad and I, the unstoppable team of housework (me) and laboring at the docks (him). Until I learned that even the unstoppable could be stopped.

-----

"We're real sorry fer yer loss, missus."

The man tips his hat at me, avoiding my eyes. I wipe my hands on my apron and slam the door in his face. Today was Monday, I had bread to bake. I knead the dough harder than necessary, tears blurring my vision. I couldn't tell what I was hitting anymore, the dough or the table. I kept punching with a concentrated intensity until the dough was completely flat. One look at it and I was on my knees, tears running down my face fast and thick.

For him, for me, for the life we had shared.

------

It's dark when I wake, my head pounding and my stomach growling. I had no bread, no source of income. There was only one option for girls like me- taking to the streets.

I shake my head. No matter how hungry I was, I wouldn't stoop that far. Or would I? My stomach is practically begging me to do it. I sigh, running my fingers through my dirty hair. Was I willing to go hungry in order to preserve my dignity?

----

Apparently not. I stand in a dark alleyway, some drunken stranger practically drooling in front of me.

"Fancy a good time, miss?" He smiles in a way that could only be described as perverse, a flash of silver in his hand. Coins. Without hesitation, I take them from him, my stomach ruling my mind.

"I thought so." He traces the edge of my jaw, "Pretty little thing, aren't you?" He fingers one scraggly curl, "Nice red hair. Virgin?"

I have no choice but to nod.

His grin grows wider and more sinister. "My favorite kind."

He kisses my neck, I try not to flinch. His fingers trace my collarbone, moving past my shoulders and down my bodice, towards my breasts. I bite my lip; trying my hardest not to cry out in disgust. But every second that passes, the more that his filthy fingers grope me, I find it harder to keep my mouth shut. Until I can't take it anymore.

"Get your hands off me!"

He grabs the back of my shawl, "Feisty one, eh?"

I shove my elbow into his ribcage and run as fast I can.

"'Ey! Come back wit me shillings, you brat!"

I don't look back to hear see if he's following me; in the distance I can hear the piercing shriek of a constable's whistle. I pick up speed, blood pumping in the back of my calves, my breathing shallow and fast. The sound of footsteps behind me grows closer. In desperation I dive into the back of a cart, covering myself in smelly burlaps sacks and scraps of muslin.

I couldn't risk going back home, not if the police were after me. As much as I fight the fatigue that covers every inch of me, my eyelids grow heavier, falling into a dreamless sleep.

-----

The bright sunlight seeps through my eyes, with a groan I roll over and attempt to go back to sleep. But the constant jolting is proving that to be an impossible task.

Wait- jolting?

I sit up, rubbing my eyes, memories of last night attacking me all at once. Dad. The drunken creep. The constable. The cart.

Oh, right, the cart.

My head spins with it all; I can barely think straight.

"'Ey, watchoo doin' in 'ere?" A ragman stares at me, frowning.

Without a second thought, I hold onto my skirts and jump, landing on the rough cobblestones. Pushing myself up, I walk in what I think to be north, the shillings I stole forgotten. And I don't remember those precious bits of silver until hours later, when I arrive at busy market nearly mad with hunger.

-----

Red ripe apples, plump and shining. Fresh fish, the silvery scales glistening in its own oils. Bread baked to a golden brown, the buttery scent torturing me. There had to be a throwaway scrap, something, anything. But no one notices me among the crowd, lost and lonely. I bit my lower lip, pride stopping me from begging outright.

The sights and smells are too much for me, I stumble down a quiet alleyway with a feverish gait. I sink to the curb, not trusting my legs to carry me further. Tears seep out of the corners of my eyes; I sniffle and wipe my nose with my sleeve. I was a truly pathetic creature. I had always prided myself on my strength, now I was weeping at the drop of a hat. Nothing to be proud of.

"Watchoo doin, cryin like tha'?"

I look up, wiping away a few stray tears. A boy of fifteen stood before me, wearing a magenta top hat, striped trousers and ill fitting boots, his eyes brown and innocent- a contrast to the rest of him, giving off an air of good natured cheekiness.

"Nothin', I suppose."

He sits down next to me, "Nothin'? The watchoo doin' sittin' here, all sad and the like?"

I look up at him, for someone so dirty, a street urchin; he has a kindness about him I can't ignore. The whole story tumbles out in a rush; he listens patiently.

"….And then I ended up here, and I don't know where I am and I have no food……" I was rambling, I knew it, but I couldn't stop. I could feel my throat getting tighter, my nose itches, a signal that I'm about to cry.

He pats my shoulder, slightly awkward, as if he doesn't know how to comfort semi-hysterical girls.

"Don' start cryin' like tha' I can' stand to watch girls cryin'." He changes the subject, "What's yer name?"

"Emily."

"Yer 'ungry, Emily?" I nod and he stands up, offering his hand to me. "Come on then, we don' 'ave much, but it somefing."

I pause, looking into his eyes. I see no animosity, no ulterior motive. So I take it.

A fresh start, food, a companion. What more could an orphan ask for?


End file.
